Harp Weeds

The sun rises in a harp of weeds,
Plucking every thistle string…
Shoreline birds flee with the dawn,
Time flies on a Heron’s wing.

Daylight’s ascent hits every chord,
Notes airborne to the sky…
The seconds are the melody,
Minutes on a Heron’s wing fly.

At night the new moon rises,
Retuning every chord and weed.
The Heron returns to monitor,
The Orchestra of sprouting seed.

Spring brings the thistle fresh refrain
Sunrise brings another day…
Sunset sees the heron fleeting,
On it’s wings, another day.

The breezes play the grass harp,
While pendulum branches sing.
The shore birds have departed,
Time flies on a Heron’s wing.